FIC: Nylon (1/1), PG-13
To those of you who are used to BSG on this baby, be prepared: some much-belated Narnia!fic.
Title: Nylon
Author: lepetitarsenic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied incest. Non-explicit.
Pairings: Susan/Peter, implied.
Summary: Susan finds it easiest to adjust of all.
Susan Pevensie was a sensible woman- girl, she told herself- but she had a penchant for staying out late on weekend nights, and her mother was hardly the only person at home who had noticed. Still, for two days, of a too-long week, she would push to the back of her mind the plaintive cries of her sister begging for bedtime stories, and the surly looks her little brother threw her way after she'd "knocked about the kitchen in the middle of the night-" he never slept easy, but she never said a word- and went out with a few of the girls she'd met in the factory. She did hard work there, nimble fingers pressing together the tiniest of parts for God-knew-what, but it was only for a little while. She trusted her mother to that.
It was only until Peter was out of school and could find work; then Susan would go his way, or (she was not the only one to hope) perhaps she'd be married by then. The Pevensies were well fed and clothed because she worked; but they were fed and clothed, and that was what mattered.
That afternoon, however, Susan had done something not entirely sensible; something she was kicking herself for now, wasteful and impractical and causing the arches of her feet no small amount of pain. She'd been staring at a pair of perfectly modest-looking low, closed-toe heels in the shop window for weeks; olive green, in elegant, smooth leather, befitting a young woman, and reasonably priced. She needed new shoes, at any rate, and her mother had given her permisson to buy them (it was her money, after all,) though they were hardly what she imagined her mother could have ever had in mind. They weren't meant for factory floors- they were for ballrooms, thick Persian carpets, and glowing chandelier light; for murmured conversation about the Calmorean threat- no, the Russians- no, better not to think of that at all.
She was weary of working, and weary of going out; the men in the bars near the factory district looked nice enough, but their manner was as rough as their hands. Her friends would call her an ice princess; that was Edmund, she would think, but they would never understand. Susan wasn't cold.
She wasn't. She could remember everything; what it was like to be held, to be loved as deeply as any Daughter of Eve. To be honored, and courted, and vied over, begged for, kissed, touched; her body remembered everything this body had never felt, and she longed for it, longed for- but there was no one. Not here.
The streetlamps had died; another blackout, and so she'd headed home. There had been offers to walk her, but Susan feared little- certainly no man- and it had only been a short few blocks. Still, it was difficult to see in the dark, so she chose her steps carefully, and even then, it was near-impossible to find purchase on the uneven street. In another world, thickly woven carpets had been laid at her feet before receptions, and the soil of the earth was even softer beneath silk slippers- but she wouldn't think of that.
She was home soon, at any rate, sharp eyes in the dark that spied the wood sign proclaiming "Grocer, Year-Round," on the top of their building, and was nearly at the stairs in no time at all. Fumbling in the dark, she found the key in her purse and turned it slowly, pushing the door in and up a bit so the hinges wouldn't squeak. There was a light on in her room- had she left the lamp burning? How irresponsible; no, sometimes mother sewed in there- could she still be awake? Frowning, she turned the handle, peering inside, praying she wasn't- and she wasn't indeed. It was him.
"Peter- what are you doing up? Haven't you got school tomorrow?" He made no move to answer, and her frown deepened as she bent by her mirror to remove her lipstick- half gone, anyway- by the light of her lamp. "You needn't worry, you know. I was only seven blocks off, and Melinda and Charlotte were with me- you remember Charlotte, don't you?- in fact, Charles Danner offered to walk me, but I didn't want to give him the wrong imp- well, really, Peter, what is it?"
She turned to face him, halfway into wiping the powder off her cheeks. His eyes were dark and fixed on her; she put her hands on her hips and awaited a reply. There was no use in letting him brood; it would only get worse if he didn't have his say. He looked rather as if he was working up nerve, which was a rarity for Peter, as he typically had rather a lot to spare.
"What do you think you're going to find out there, Su?" he said finally.
She blinked at him, at a loss for words.
"Well, that isn't it at all-"
"Then why do you leave every chance you get?"
She sighed, slipping out of the damnable shoes and bending down to unhook her stockings, unraveling the delicate fabric down her freckled legs. Peter's expression didn't change in this slightest, but he lowered his eyes to watch her.
"It makes me feel better," she said finally, gently folding the stockings and placing them in her dresser drawer. Setting the shoes neatly side by side at the end of her bed, she turned her back to Peter. "Would you?"
Obligingly, he unbuttoned the top half of her dress, huffing softly in consternation. "Do you really think that those things could ever replace-"
"Not about about that, Peter," she said quickly, firmly, slipping the dress off her shoulders and hanging it with care. "It makes me feel better about mother's having to work all day and Lucy's always crying, and that Edmund can barely make it to school each day, never mind that there's a war on-"
"You can't let that bother you," he said, taking a hard hold of her shoulder. She frowned. There was a light in his eyes she couldn't quite place, and it worried her. No one knew him like she did.
"Don't tell me it doesn't you."
"We're Kings and Queens-"
"We're not children any more," she said softly, pulling her arm away from him and moving to look out the window. She was cold, and exhausted, and the dark of London looked a thousand times darker with no streetlights burning. She was tired of never having anyone to talk to, particularly Peter, who had always understood. Who had always been sensible, like she was, and now this-
She heard a soft rustle of fabric and felt the familar warmth of her dressing gown slip about her shoulders, and another warmth, unfamiliar and yet-so-
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know it's difficult."
The silence stretched as he held her; she drew his arms around her waist and closed her eyes, forgetting everything but what she remembered. The warmth of him against her back was more comforting than a thousand things he could have said; and she knew what he was likely to say, anyway. They'd had this row a thousand times since they'd been back from the Professor's. When they'd pressed up against the solid wood of the back of the wardrobe- when Lucy had thrown herself at it, sobbing- when Susan had gathered her up in her arms and glared and glared and glared, as if she could burn a hole right through it and back into Narnia- she'd made her mind up then. He would come around. He was sensible.
"We can't have those things, Peter," she said finally. "It was cruel of him to show them to us."
"It was wonderful-"
"It was cruel. It was unbearably cruel-" her voice tore up- she wouldn't think about it- and she drew out of his arms gently, pulling the dressing gown tighter about her shoulders and curling up on her bed, back to the crumbling wallpaper, knees to her chest. "Narnia doesn't exist, Peter. Not here, not anywhere here. It was a dream- a beautiful dream, but we can't be tempted-"
"Can't be tempted to what?" he asked, crawling onto the bed beside and settling down to face her. She looked back at him very solemnly.
"We can't lose ourselves in impossible dreams of- better places. There's got to be something here worth living for."
"And you think you'll find it out there."
She hugged her knees to her chest, a thousand memories flitting in front of her eyes and away just as quickly. In Narnia, there had never been anything but Narnia; never anything but Lucy and Edmund and him, the hills and the sea and their subjects, but they had shared everything- absolutely everything- her voice came out in barely a whisper.
"I don't know where it is any more."
"It's here," he said, and lifted her hand to his heart, beating wildly. She never imagined she could feel so uncomfortable in her skin, as if every inch of every thing inside of her was desperate to touch that steady thrum. She spread her fingers out; she pressed them softly into the bone beneath his skin. "It's always been here, Su- I just-" his voice faltered, and he looked at her, as desperate as she'd ever seen him, and young, so young- "I won't lose you. Not after everything else."
"You shan't," she said, and with some finality reached past him to dim the lamp next to her bed. "We ought to be going to sleep."
He was silent for a long time; he held her hand in his lap, as gently as if she were a child- he had never been anything but gentle with her, however powerful with a- but she wouldn't think of that.
"Do you remember how things used to be, Susan?"
She cringed inside; some wall quavered and shattered and a torrent of heat came rushing through into her cheeks, her chest. It was back; it was uncontrollable.
"Peter-" she whispered, and couldn't meet his eyes. She could tell it hurt him to think of it; she could tell without looking, and that was why she wouldn't. "We can't. Not here. Not any more."
"That was worth living for," he said, holding her hand so tightly she thought that they'd melt into one.
"It was worth anything," she whispered, looking up into his face. He looked as if he were about to break; it broke her to see him that way, a King- she couldn't-
"But it's nothing to you now."
"That's not what I meant-"
"It's what you mean every time you walk out that door-"
"I need something," she said, voice hot and hard and sharp. "I need something if I can't have you."
He moved quickly, tangling a hand in her dark curls and pressing his forehead to hers. Her tears were hot, too, and he pressed one into her cheek with the soft pad of his thumb.
"You've got me, Su," he said simply, and she fell into him and cried until she hadn't any tears left at all.
Posted to narnia_fiction and petersusan.
Title: Nylon
Author: lepetitarsenic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied incest. Non-explicit.
Pairings: Susan/Peter, implied.
Summary: Susan finds it easiest to adjust of all.
Susan Pevensie was a sensible woman- girl, she told herself- but she had a penchant for staying out late on weekend nights, and her mother was hardly the only person at home who had noticed. Still, for two days, of a too-long week, she would push to the back of her mind the plaintive cries of her sister begging for bedtime stories, and the surly looks her little brother threw her way after she'd "knocked about the kitchen in the middle of the night-" he never slept easy, but she never said a word- and went out with a few of the girls she'd met in the factory. She did hard work there, nimble fingers pressing together the tiniest of parts for God-knew-what, but it was only for a little while. She trusted her mother to that.
It was only until Peter was out of school and could find work; then Susan would go his way, or (she was not the only one to hope) perhaps she'd be married by then. The Pevensies were well fed and clothed because she worked; but they were fed and clothed, and that was what mattered.
That afternoon, however, Susan had done something not entirely sensible; something she was kicking herself for now, wasteful and impractical and causing the arches of her feet no small amount of pain. She'd been staring at a pair of perfectly modest-looking low, closed-toe heels in the shop window for weeks; olive green, in elegant, smooth leather, befitting a young woman, and reasonably priced. She needed new shoes, at any rate, and her mother had given her permisson to buy them (it was her money, after all,) though they were hardly what she imagined her mother could have ever had in mind. They weren't meant for factory floors- they were for ballrooms, thick Persian carpets, and glowing chandelier light; for murmured conversation about the Calmorean threat- no, the Russians- no, better not to think of that at all.
She was weary of working, and weary of going out; the men in the bars near the factory district looked nice enough, but their manner was as rough as their hands. Her friends would call her an ice princess; that was Edmund, she would think, but they would never understand. Susan wasn't cold.
She wasn't. She could remember everything; what it was like to be held, to be loved as deeply as any Daughter of Eve. To be honored, and courted, and vied over, begged for, kissed, touched; her body remembered everything this body had never felt, and she longed for it, longed for- but there was no one. Not here.
The streetlamps had died; another blackout, and so she'd headed home. There had been offers to walk her, but Susan feared little- certainly no man- and it had only been a short few blocks. Still, it was difficult to see in the dark, so she chose her steps carefully, and even then, it was near-impossible to find purchase on the uneven street. In another world, thickly woven carpets had been laid at her feet before receptions, and the soil of the earth was even softer beneath silk slippers- but she wouldn't think of that.
She was home soon, at any rate, sharp eyes in the dark that spied the wood sign proclaiming "Grocer, Year-Round," on the top of their building, and was nearly at the stairs in no time at all. Fumbling in the dark, she found the key in her purse and turned it slowly, pushing the door in and up a bit so the hinges wouldn't squeak. There was a light on in her room- had she left the lamp burning? How irresponsible; no, sometimes mother sewed in there- could she still be awake? Frowning, she turned the handle, peering inside, praying she wasn't- and she wasn't indeed. It was him.
"Peter- what are you doing up? Haven't you got school tomorrow?" He made no move to answer, and her frown deepened as she bent by her mirror to remove her lipstick- half gone, anyway- by the light of her lamp. "You needn't worry, you know. I was only seven blocks off, and Melinda and Charlotte were with me- you remember Charlotte, don't you?- in fact, Charles Danner offered to walk me, but I didn't want to give him the wrong imp- well, really, Peter, what is it?"
She turned to face him, halfway into wiping the powder off her cheeks. His eyes were dark and fixed on her; she put her hands on her hips and awaited a reply. There was no use in letting him brood; it would only get worse if he didn't have his say. He looked rather as if he was working up nerve, which was a rarity for Peter, as he typically had rather a lot to spare.
"What do you think you're going to find out there, Su?" he said finally.
She blinked at him, at a loss for words.
"Well, that isn't it at all-"
"Then why do you leave every chance you get?"
She sighed, slipping out of the damnable shoes and bending down to unhook her stockings, unraveling the delicate fabric down her freckled legs. Peter's expression didn't change in this slightest, but he lowered his eyes to watch her.
"It makes me feel better," she said finally, gently folding the stockings and placing them in her dresser drawer. Setting the shoes neatly side by side at the end of her bed, she turned her back to Peter. "Would you?"
Obligingly, he unbuttoned the top half of her dress, huffing softly in consternation. "Do you really think that those things could ever replace-"
"Not about about that, Peter," she said quickly, firmly, slipping the dress off her shoulders and hanging it with care. "It makes me feel better about mother's having to work all day and Lucy's always crying, and that Edmund can barely make it to school each day, never mind that there's a war on-"
"You can't let that bother you," he said, taking a hard hold of her shoulder. She frowned. There was a light in his eyes she couldn't quite place, and it worried her. No one knew him like she did.
"Don't tell me it doesn't you."
"We're Kings and Queens-"
"We're not children any more," she said softly, pulling her arm away from him and moving to look out the window. She was cold, and exhausted, and the dark of London looked a thousand times darker with no streetlights burning. She was tired of never having anyone to talk to, particularly Peter, who had always understood. Who had always been sensible, like she was, and now this-
She heard a soft rustle of fabric and felt the familar warmth of her dressing gown slip about her shoulders, and another warmth, unfamiliar and yet-so-
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know it's difficult."
The silence stretched as he held her; she drew his arms around her waist and closed her eyes, forgetting everything but what she remembered. The warmth of him against her back was more comforting than a thousand things he could have said; and she knew what he was likely to say, anyway. They'd had this row a thousand times since they'd been back from the Professor's. When they'd pressed up against the solid wood of the back of the wardrobe- when Lucy had thrown herself at it, sobbing- when Susan had gathered her up in her arms and glared and glared and glared, as if she could burn a hole right through it and back into Narnia- she'd made her mind up then. He would come around. He was sensible.
"We can't have those things, Peter," she said finally. "It was cruel of him to show them to us."
"It was wonderful-"
"It was cruel. It was unbearably cruel-" her voice tore up- she wouldn't think about it- and she drew out of his arms gently, pulling the dressing gown tighter about her shoulders and curling up on her bed, back to the crumbling wallpaper, knees to her chest. "Narnia doesn't exist, Peter. Not here, not anywhere here. It was a dream- a beautiful dream, but we can't be tempted-"
"Can't be tempted to what?" he asked, crawling onto the bed beside and settling down to face her. She looked back at him very solemnly.
"We can't lose ourselves in impossible dreams of- better places. There's got to be something here worth living for."
"And you think you'll find it out there."
She hugged her knees to her chest, a thousand memories flitting in front of her eyes and away just as quickly. In Narnia, there had never been anything but Narnia; never anything but Lucy and Edmund and him, the hills and the sea and their subjects, but they had shared everything- absolutely everything- her voice came out in barely a whisper.
"I don't know where it is any more."
"It's here," he said, and lifted her hand to his heart, beating wildly. She never imagined she could feel so uncomfortable in her skin, as if every inch of every thing inside of her was desperate to touch that steady thrum. She spread her fingers out; she pressed them softly into the bone beneath his skin. "It's always been here, Su- I just-" his voice faltered, and he looked at her, as desperate as she'd ever seen him, and young, so young- "I won't lose you. Not after everything else."
"You shan't," she said, and with some finality reached past him to dim the lamp next to her bed. "We ought to be going to sleep."
He was silent for a long time; he held her hand in his lap, as gently as if she were a child- he had never been anything but gentle with her, however powerful with a- but she wouldn't think of that.
"Do you remember how things used to be, Susan?"
She cringed inside; some wall quavered and shattered and a torrent of heat came rushing through into her cheeks, her chest. It was back; it was uncontrollable.
"Peter-" she whispered, and couldn't meet his eyes. She could tell it hurt him to think of it; she could tell without looking, and that was why she wouldn't. "We can't. Not here. Not any more."
"That was worth living for," he said, holding her hand so tightly she thought that they'd melt into one.
"It was worth anything," she whispered, looking up into his face. He looked as if he were about to break; it broke her to see him that way, a King- she couldn't-
"But it's nothing to you now."
"That's not what I meant-"
"It's what you mean every time you walk out that door-"
"I need something," she said, voice hot and hard and sharp. "I need something if I can't have you."
He moved quickly, tangling a hand in her dark curls and pressing his forehead to hers. Her tears were hot, too, and he pressed one into her cheek with the soft pad of his thumb.
"You've got me, Su," he said simply, and she fell into him and cried until she hadn't any tears left at all.
Posted to narnia_fiction and petersusan.